Dorian went to one knee in the middle of the war room, and nobody understood why.
"Sir?" Grath moved toward him, hand out.
"Don't touch me." Dorian's voice came out strained, a hand pressed flat against his own chest like he could hold something in place through the skin. "Something's wrong."
The map table sat abandoned between them, markers still positioned for a march that had been underway for hours, the main force already two days out from Dustbridge and closing.
"The advance unit," Grath said. "We haven't had a report in six hours."
Dorian pushed himself back to his feet, unsteady in a way none of his commanders had seen from him before. "Get me a rider. Now."
Outside, along the marching column, fighters felt it before any rider could reach them — a hum they'd carried without no
